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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Seen
Cherubim
Seraphim
Glittering
Ranks
Display
Wings

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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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Nor think thou with wind Of æry threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
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If weakness may excuse, What murderer, what traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness that plea, therefore, With God or man will gain thee no remission.
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Law can discover sin, but not remove, Save by those shadowy expiations weak.
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What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.
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